The Legendary Killian Jones
by Louise24601
Summary: Killian Jones' life can be summed up in a few simple themes: love, anger, vengeance... A series of short stories where the people of Storybrooke are seen from Killian Jones' eyes, each attached to a feeling or obsession that makes him who he is.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's note**: the stories might not be linked at all sometimes, the only character that will be in every chapter is Killian Jones, and each time another character or couple, from his own point of view. This is my first Once Upon a Time fanfic, I hope you'll enjoy it and I will appreciate any comment, so please don't forget to leave a review. Nothing else to note about the story, except there'll be one main theme per chapter; I thought most stories end with revenge, why not start with it?

**Title: The Legendary Killian Jones**

Chapter 1: VENGEANCE

"_Look at the sun! It's dry, it's dead, it needs a drink, it wants blood! And I'll give it blood!"_

Alfred de Musset

...

An eye for an eye.

There's a certain familiar ring to it that Killian Jones finds alluring. In fact, there's something about the law of retaliation that he would describe as just. _Fair_. What is unique about it though, he reckons, is that it we've all heard it somewhere, we've all heard it before, and so when it comes down to actually considering it, it sounds different. It sounds legitimate. And it always sounds familiar.

A wife for a wife.

Killian Jones was never a good man, he was however more often than not led to show kindness; mercy. Often, he simply tells himself that something broke inside of him, when the woman that he loved died in his arms. There's something that tore; something that snapped. He watched life hope and dreams drain from Milah's eyes, and a new man was born. No more kindness. No more mercy.

So vengeance?

Why not?

…

The girl is beautiful, this much he's got to admit. There's a perfect word to describe a woman like her, and it's: lovely. Killian's been with too many women to consider that he has a type, but as he discovers the blue-eyed beauty, he reckons that she's the sort he would have taken home. In fact, if she hadn't happened to be dating the murderer–the Crocodile–he thinks that he might have been visiting her library over three times a week for entirely different reasons.

"Is there anything I can do for you, sir?" She says to him when he comes through the door, and each time the smile she greets him with is honest as can be; it curves dimples into her peachy cheeks, and it's as though nothing brightens her day more than the idea to brighten his.

He figures a woman like Belle du Maurier is definitely the sort he would court; she's kind and she's ravishing, smiles in a way that could soften a fiend, and there's something about her that feels overly precious for a sickly world.

"Only the usual, love." He speaks casually. "Only the usual."

And what he usually does, at her library, is browse a few books without interest and feign to read. He only watches her when she isn't watching him. He makes himself both discreet and courteous enough to be sure he won't be mentioned to her boyfriend, because _that_ would be the ultimate joke. Killian Jones doesn't get played, he doesn't get _fooled_.

He fools the fools.

And that librarian with doe eyes and long brown hair is probably the loveliest fool he could have come across, a fool nevertheless, and it didn't take long for Killian to decide that Belle du Maurier was probably the last person in Storybrooke–in the entire State–that deserved to die. But again, avenging Milah was never about the Murderer's girlfriend, she is merely the means.

That's what is both unjust and fair about the law of retaliation. That eye you take for the one that was taken isn't always the culprit's eye. You don't kill the man who killed your love. You kill his.

The shelves of the library are burdened with monstrously heavy books, but Killian can still distinguish the girl as she takes a short break, sits down on one of the low-price armchairs with the original French version of Alexander Dumas's _Comte de Monte Cristo_. He watches her captured by the plot, a long fingernail nervously caught between her teeth, as she barely finds the courage to turn one page after the next.

He watches her, and he thinks that vengeance is an ugly thing.

But again, this was never about pretty.

…

Hunting isn't about speed; it isn't about strength, either. It isn't about your skills, how well you aim or how quick you strike; generally, Killian Jones learned that it's about knowing how to disappear. To be invisible.

He doesn't only know where Belle works now, he doesn't only know that she starts at eight and finishes at four, that she smiles brightly enough to draw jealousy from the sun, loves French literature and tales of romance. Unfortunately for Belle du Maurier, there's just one thing she loves that Killian can't forgive. He knows her better than well now, he knows her like the back of his hand. He knows where she goes home at night–and to whom–he knows where she runs when she's afraid, and where she hides when she's wounded.

Because he does wound her. Killian finds this much impossible to deny.

The only reason why the renowned Mr. Gold doesn't visit his sweetheart at her workplace is because he's busy with his own, and can't afford for anyone to discover what he's up to. He's always up to something. There's always a scheme, a design that he plans and no one is in on it; not even Belle. That's what hurts her, Killian reckons. What hurts her is that Rumpelstilskin must love her with everything that he is, but nor her love nor his will ever be enough; he'll always need more.

Killian understood that, as he watched the girl dry puffy red eyes, half concealed behind a large book. She loves the Murderer, she loves him the way a fairytale princess loves a toad that she believes will turn into her prince, in the meanwhile she loves him ugly and treacherous, and Killian thinks that she's guilty of that at least.

Yet when she sheds silent tears, in a corner of her own library, Killian puts down the book he was feigning to peruse, walks to her and asks, too gentle to be intrusive. "What's the matter, doll?"

She laughs at the mere mention, a wet nervous chuckle that comes out sad and embarrassed. "Nothing, hum… It's foolish, really."

He doesn't nod or agree with that statement in any way, but deep down Killian doesn't disapprove of the term. The more he gets to know Belle du Maurier, the more he watches, the more he'd like to tell her that it is foolish, so very, very foolish. Not just because she loves a creature that is lucky to be able to breathe the same air as her, because she loves a beast who might be what she wants but will never be what she deserves, but because the _way_ she loves him is itself ridiculous – and unreciprocated.

She loves him with all her heart and is his body and soul. But he'll never be hers.

He follows her when she goes home at night, he watches her climb the doorsteps and slide into the Crocodile's lair. Killian doesn't need to be quick, he doesn't need to be strong, not for now; he just needs to be invisible. Once she's inside, he watches through the windows; the woods offer just enough camouflage, and all dressed of black, Killian is like a shadow disappearing with its own kind.

The lights downstairs remain switched on long enough, and as he can't hear any shouting, Killian guesses that tonight, the Crocodile is lying. He's watched them long enough to know that their relationship is split into two equal alternatives: fighting, and lying. He heard Belle shouting at him more than once, not with anger but with that desperate acuteness, this _pleading_ sliver in her voice, she'd ask him–Do you love me, Rumple?–and when he'd say yes, she'd ask: how?

It's a matter that Killian is rather interested in himself.

When they're not arguing–it's usually really one or the other–then he's lying to her, he's hiding something, and it's only one more thing to fight about. Killian wondered, at first, if it was distance that allowed him to see this so clearly, but now he knows that she can see it, too. Every time the man she loves greets her with a smile, one that isn't deceitful but not completely sincere either, she knows that he's lying.

It's something that she's never shared with Killian, of course, although he suspects she came to think of him as a friend. He's not her friend. But he's thought of it though, he ponders on it sometimes and thinks that if he were her friend, he'd tell her: _run. He'll never change for you. He'll never be honest to you. Run now and run fast, because if you don't, you'll lose yourself in the process; because if you can't make him beautiful, he'll make you ugly. Because if you don't leave now, you'll just end up loving him until you can't_.

But Killian says nothing.

He just watches; and he waits.

…

There's something about the law of retaliation that sounds unfair, too. The downsides of his plan are something that Killian hadn't given much thought to until he met Belle du Maurier. It's something that crossed his mind once or twice after he met her, and something that's never been more clear than now, when he drags her across the floor.

He has a pistol aimed at her head but she's struggling still, and he figures it's only fair.

It's funny how "fair" never had the same ring after he started thinking of vengeance.

She started crying a while ago, and he would have expected being unable to think through the whimpers, he would have expected for her cries to deafen his brain and determination, but Killian Jones has never felt more clear-minded than now.

He pushes her on the bed and keeps her still by the sole menace of his firearm. Once this is over, he'll clean up any trace of a struggle because he wants Rumpelstilskin to find her there. He wants the Crocodile to come home, with plans and hopes filling his thoughts, and he wants there to be _surprise_ in his eyes when he discovers his beloved on their bed, the sheets a crimson shade of red that the murderer won't be likely to forget.

She's stopped crying now; she stays motionless, half-sitting on the mattress, trembling and terror fills her eyes, but she isn't crying.

She looks at him.

She doesn't ask why, she _knows_ why, because she doesn't have a violent bone in her body nor an evil thought in her mid, and any enemy she might have can only come from the man she loves. The man she chose.

Killian could tell her about Milah; as surprising as it may sound, he's never given much thought to this moment, how it would unfold. But as it turns out, he simply can't say anything; he thinks he understands now, the unfairness of this primitive rule. An eye for an eye. It means being willing to accept that your actions are, in the name of vengeance, both legitimate, and illegitimate. It means being willing to become exactly as horrid as the person who took something from you; no more, no less. It means that your actions will not be justified or forgiven any more than his.

But it would be a cruel joke, Killian thinks, that _now_, he should prefer justice to vengeance.

"I'm sorry, love." He says, and. "It's not personal."

And it's not. It's never been personal.

The weapon is aimed at her, Killian's finger lies still against the trigger, but there's something peculiar, paralyzing his hand.

It's the look she gives him, he reckons.

It's idiotic, it's actually foolish, paradoxical, and inexplicable, but it's happening.

There's something in her blue eyes that is so helpless it summons allegiance. There's something strong about her weakness, there's something inside him that tells him it's because he _could_ press that trigger that he can't. There's something in Belle du Maurier's eyes that commands obedience, something that Killian could fight against.

He's not certain why anymore.

He watches her watching him, and it occurs to him that it's different from what he's used to, spying on her through crowded shelves. In fact, he wonders if it's not the first time he's really looked her in the eye.

And the thought gets lost in the sound of the gunshot when he fires.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: ANGER

_"There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth"_

Friedrich Nietzsche

...

Anger.

It's something Killian Jones isn't unfamiliar with, something we averagely all experience before the age of ten. When another child borrows your toys in the sandbox without asking for permission. When a boy hangs out with the fair-haired girl you thought was kind of cute.

Killian thought he had it nailed down since he was twelve.

The current captain of the Jolly Roger wasn't always a captain. Back in the days, there was a time when Killian Jones wasn't different from your average teenage boy, utterly and absolutely ordinary. Mr. and Mrs. Jones weren't bad people, they didn't raise a pirate, and they certainly didn't raise an evil man but a plain albeit peculiar little boy.

There was a time when Killian Jones wasn't particularly different from the rest.

But he felt different. He felt _special_.

Growing up amongst a family of farmers, watching his parents' friends have dinner and chat over this and that, Killian came to believe that the whole world was a comedy, its inhabitants idiotic puppets that had been caught in their own act. He watched teenagers fall in love with an inexplicable detachment, and regarded every earthly emotion with the same inflexible cold, one that allowed him to make the assumption that not a single one of them was real. People didn't really fall in love. They _pretended_ to fall in love. Every one of their habits were stupid rituals, ones that he bet felt a whole lot natural to them, but they couldn't explain why they did them if he asked.

And Killian was somehow born outside of their grotesque comedy, where the puppet show went on ever so eternally. He realized this with a barely amused lucidity.

But the anger hadn't come yet. Killian didn't know the colors of anger yet.

It came later, it came in the summer, when his ever-so-worried mother let out a sigh and wished out loud he could be more like other boys – it didn't sound particularly different from the other times she'd said it, and yet the words opened to Killian's ears like a long dreaded truth. His ever-so-worried mother worried because her worrying little boy didn't yet play a part in that comedy.

That's when Killian understood it wasn't enough for the world to be stuck back in forth into a never ending prance, no; the fools wanted him to dance, too.

At that moment, a feeling came; at his knowledge, the first one he ever felt. A true, strong feeling as unstoppable as unpredictable.

It was red.

This realization repainted the world to Killian's eyes, and as its colors changed before him his blood began to boil in his veins and at that precise moment, he hated everyone. Merchants, passer-bys, friends of the family and Mr. and Mrs. Jones.

He hated them with an implacable blind rage that would have condemned a thousand men as coldly as a fly.

At that moment began the rebellion inside of Killian Jones, which would make him turn his back on the small village he grew up in, the parents that had raised him and the memories he'd leave behind.

Without a look behind his shoulder.

He'd leave it all behind.

Not only because the sight of them clowns had become unbearable to him but because, deep down beneath his pride, Killian might have admitted he feared that if he waited too long, something would freeze him still inside the people's ridiculous show. As though an invisible hand would come from high above and pin him down on stage, and force him to play his part. _You shall be Wrath_. As though a higher power would cage him into the dance he hated so much. As though, if he didn't leave now, he never would.

And so he did.

Twenty one years later, he still remembers it more than well. He still remembers how Anger stuck Its fist inside his ribcage, climbed up to his heart and squeezed. He remembers it perfectly and if you were to ask, he'd tell you that anger is made of hate, sometimes pride, and almost always fear. He'd tell you a swelling rage is like a rising tide, it's like the ocean drawing back its sapphire blue coat, and nothing will stop the tidal wave from surging onto you.

But then, something strange happens to him. Her. She. It's not like he hasn't seen his share of pretty girls back in the days, and it's actually all she is when he first sees her. A pretty face framed by golden hair. He's in control all the way, he teases her to see her blush, and asks her about love because love is _always_ a touchy subject, and –

And he ends up handcuffed to a wall and trapped in the lair of a giant. Well. It doesn't take long for that swelling rage to flow in again, but something feels different about it. He ended up _fooled_. This much brings out about as much shame as it does amusement, and something even beyond both.

It makes him wonder if it's even anger at all. It makes him wonder if he's not the only goddamned clown in this room.

…

**End Notes**: hey, hope some of you are actually reading this story, I'm having fun writing it anyway; this chapter was kind of short, the next one will probably be longer and I promise Emma will be in it ;) Hope you'll enjoy this, also I always love to hear opinions about my work so don't forget to leave a review.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3: SHAME

_"They call you heartless, but you have a heart, and I love you for being ashamed to show it."_

Friedrich Nietzsche

…

Killian Jones isn't a stupid man. He knows what matters to him and does what he has to, to keep them in reach. And every time Killian Jones has truly wanted something, he's had it.

He can't think of a reason why she'd be any different.

At first, it's because she played him. She made a fool out of him, and no one makes a fool out of Killian Jones without paying off that debt. The second reason is, she's a woman – and she's beautiful. Not the kind of beauty that makes you grow tender; she's not the tender kind at all. This one woman is a fighter; she's a firecracker. He can tell right away, almost without trying. He looks over that attractive figure, slim but strong, he looks for cracks in her posture, but it's almost as though she thinks she's in control.

He's seen her tease, he's seen her fight, and he concludes that Emma Swann is probably the kind of woman that goes down into flames rather than with a whisper. She's the kind of woman that would make a hell out of his world.

And on a whim, he decides he'd like to see her try.

Despite everything, Killian still believes in this stupid rule, an eye for an eye, and so he thinks he'll make a fool out of Emma Swann, because she fooled him first. It sounds legitimate; and fair.

He thinks he'll hurt her, and then be done with her.

He follows her around a bit whilst pretending he's siding with the good guys; he sticks around late at night to watch the sea, because she does it too. He calls her Goldilocks, and watches her smile instead of blush; she smiles because it's her way of showing she's bullet proof. He can't get to her. But he will.

Emma Swann might be a fighter, she might be as tough as she likes to think she is, she's also a human being, more specifically… Killian thinks of the look on her face that day, when he talked to her about love, and that single sentence.

_Maybe I've been… once._

Emma Swann isn't only the savior, she isn't an ice queen, or a tall statue in the sky. She is heartsick.

And so Killian thinks that's where he'll need to hit; her heart.

…

"Rough night, lamb?" He asks, and he's half hoping she'll surprise him by her answer.

"If I'm a lamb, does that make you a pig?"

He can't hold back a satisfied grin. He personally prefers to think of himself as a wolf.

For the moment, his plan is going well. It's more than easy to cross Emma Swann's path, first of all because Storybrooke is a small town, and second, because all he has to do to see her, is basically take a step outside.

She's that kind of woman who doesn't want to settle in, and so he isn't too surprise that she currently lives inside a hotel – the same hotel he's staying at, wouldn't you know it? Killian Jones isn't the type to settle down either, and maybe one day he'll think of Emma Swann as one of his kind; a lonely, angry little girl, who didn't grow to be as cold as she'd wish to be.

Their balconies are side by side, their bedrooms only a wall away; sometimes, when she goes to sleep, he hears her turn around incessantly, and wonders what she's thinking about, or dreaming of. Sometimes, he dreams of her himself. And that's odd, yes; the Great Killian Jones isn't the type to dream.

"Well, that really depends, darling." He says, and he's being willingly flirty, and courteous – because soon enough, his attention will become something Emma Swann needs; something she craves. "How do you like your men?" He finishes, and the grin stretching his lips is meant to look sincere.

Teasing, devious, but sincere. He's willing to play the role of the tender-hearted bad boy, if it'll put a look of betrayed surprise on her face, when the masks come down. Killian Jones isn't a boy; he isn't tender either. And since he shot down Belle du Maunier in cold blood, he figures he hardly even has a heart at all.

"You want to know how I like my men, Killian?" She replies, and there's something too dry in her tone for him to expect playfulness. "Quiet." She finishes, cold as ice.

She's only just stepped out on her balcony to enjoy their view of the ocean, but now he suspects she's mad enough to go back inside her room. For two weeks now, since he's begun this game, Emma has found him on the neighboring balcony, when she searched for some alone time. He's been teasing, flatterer, and just enough seductive so that she could find ways to push him back. He does know she'll push him back. That's the idea, for her to think she's in control, so that she doesn't see the danger; until one night, she steps out to watch the sea, and realizes she's disappointed not to find him here.

That's the first part of Killian's game. Sentiment.

For simple enough reasons.

Because he's spotted it once in Emma's eyes, as she mentioned her lost romance, and he's been dying to see it again ever since.

Because she made a fool out of him.

Because Killian Jones is always able to tell when he's wrong, but he can't always see when he's right.

"Quiet, is that right, Goldilocks?" He arches a brow. "I'm starting to wonder myself if you're the screaming type."

"Excuse me?" She acts as though this is going farther than his usual teasing – the teasing that she unwillingly grew accustomed to, and allows.

"A mere practical matter, love." He defends without speaking defensively. This game wouldn't be half as funny if he didn't allow himself to enjoy it. "We only sleep one wall away from each other, remember? And it's a thin wall."

The surprise is such on her face that, for a second, he thinks she's going to storm back inside her room, outraged, but instead, she lets out a laugh, so genuine that his lips break into a smile.

He likes that she surprises him. It doesn't occur to him that maybe he likes it too much.

"Wow." She states, and she's still half laughing, but serious, and threatening. "That is so none of your business."

"True." He concedes. Then he lowers his eyes to what she's wearing – a mere nightgown, and some slippers – and he adds. "For what it's worth, I kind of wish it were."

She starts laughing again and he smiles still, because there are two things about her statement that he knows, which she ignores.

First, this is his business.

And second, business is all it is.

…

This other girl whose name Killian is trying real hard to remember is the second part of his plan; she's really more like a pawn than another player.

He watches her, sitting at that bar, and he knows he won't need too much time to seal the deal with her – and since he's still utterly incapable of remembering her name, he calls her Red. Not because of her hair, since she's a brunette, but because of that cloak-like coat that flows down from her shoulders, of a scarlet shade. She's the Little Red Riding Hood and he's trying to convince her that he's a pirate and not a wolf, but it turns out that she's not nearly as afraid of bad boys as the tale would lead to think.

And she'll be the perfect tool to finish his game.

"What did you say your name was again?" The young woman asks, with such casualness that Killian almost feels bad to have held back from asking himself.

"Killian." He answers honestly with an exhale, because he could have answered with any other name that popped into his mind, not as though this will turn into a long-term relationship.

He just needs Red to help him put a look of shameful hurt and betrayal on Emma's face, and since he can sense that he's not too far from the end of his plan, he starts tying the loose ends now.

That dark-haired pretty woman in a mini-skirt is an essential pawn. She's both insignificant and determinant, because he can't get his revenge alone this time, not with Emma Swann. He needs the girl to make a fool out of Emma, and she will feel like a fool because before that, he will make her feel like someone special. He will make her feel in control, the way she did before handcuffing him by surprise. That humiliation will be his parting gift, and he wants to make sure Emma Swann gets it, because he got it all right, and he's not the kind of man you cross.

And when he will see that look of shame in her eyes, she will have paid her debt.

"You know," Killian says with a chuckle while the girl gives him a bright smile, "I actually need to get going, but I can't seem to leave without knowing I'll run into you again." He pulls a pen out of his jean pocket and she looks girlish and thrilled at his statement. "You mind giving me your phone number? I've got a busy couple of days coming up, some business I need to polish, let me call you afterwards."

"Sure." And she's so genuinely pleased to write her number on the back of his hand that he thinks he could feel guilty to make her play a part she doesn't know she'll play in his game, but if he had been able to feel guilt at all in his life, it would have been long ago.

Now, admiring his inked hand, he only thinks three days or so will be enough to finish with Emma Swann. She cares about him, and she cares that he cares about her, and whether she knows it or not will make no difference in the matter – actually, he wants her not to know it. He wants her not to have realized that she likes finding him on the balcony next to hers, that she likes insulting him and rolling her eyes at his compliments.

He just wants her to realize it when she's expecting to find him alone, and instead catches him with his tongue inside another woman's mouth.

Like he settled long ago, revenge isn't pretty. It doesn't occur to him at all that he is ruining something that might be.

…

"You know, there is something inspiring about your relationship with the sea." He says to tease her, and tries to guess whether she'll roll her eyes or smile. "I could write a poem about you right now, I'd call it 'Lonely Goldilocks Staring at the Ocean'."

"You could also call it: 'Moment Ruined by Chatty Pirate'." She suggested, not really cold. "And besides, I'm not lonely."

"Really?" He feigns surprise – teases again. "My mistake, then. So what are you doing up here instead of downtown? You have a family down there if I remember well, some parents that didn't raise you and a kid you didn't raise either."

"Hey, that's –" Her tone is sharp when she interrupts him, but not angry. He's not a stranger anymore, and apparently the comment he just made is not more out of line than the ones he usually makes. She lets out a sigh instead of finishing. "Well, Killian, maybe I'm not down there because it would deprive me of the pleasure of your company."

He lets out a chuckle, and watches her smile without it looking light; Emma Swann is a loner by choice, but even loners get lonely sometimes, especially when they can't remember when or why they decided to stray from the crowd, at a time when that same crowd looked more foolish and less attractive. Now, it's still a crowd of fools, but the loneliness makes it so you come to wish you were a fool, too.

"Oh, I get it gorgeous," he says, so seriously she can't be expecting him to tease, and he only does so to lighten her mood – that serious look in her eyes is too close to pain. "You're in love with me." He asserts, sighing as though the realization was a bit embarrassing.

It makes Emma laugh with disbelief.

"Don't deny it," he pursues, "it's not surprising, I have that effect on women. You saw me that first time in the Enchanted Forest and were _never_ able to put me behind you, so now you're stalking my balcony."

"Oh I'm stalking you?"

"Rude, isn't it?" He says and watches her give in to a laugh; she rolls her eyes anyway, but the smile on her lips is genuine.

"Yes, you're right," she enters his game, and has no idea how far she's entered it already, "I am _so_ in love with you. You know, you could even say I'm _hooked_, pun intended."

"Nice." He comments with a grin – he's still playing the part of the romantic bad boy, because he figures Emma Swann has fallen for them before, and will fall for them again. But, in all honesty, maybe he thinks that this does feel nice, looking at the ocean, late at night, in her company.

Killian Jones has been a loner for a long time, and he hates that crowd of clowns so much he never really thought he would want in, but now – now he starts thinking maybe there are a few ones that he's been missing, who are not part of his world, but who aren't part of theirs either. He thinks maybe there is just one.

He thinks he's been alone before, but he has never been lonely.

And he thinks maybe he shouldn't have decided to take revenge on Emma Swann after all, maybe to play a joke on her wasn't the smartest of ideas. He thinks that maybe, the joke is on him.

…

Winter is coming near, it's getting cold outside, and yet she waits on her balcony for hours every night, until he steps out as well, and she pretends she was only out for some fresh air. She doesn't really realize that she's waiting for him, just as she doesn't really notice that she's been thinking about him – smiling at the remembrance of things that shouldn't make her smile, and musing about late-night talks, balconies and a sight on the beach.

She doesn't realize why she likes that balcony so much. She doesn't realize that she's been spending that much more time on it, since she is used to spending it with Killian Jones.

She doesn't realize, and she doesn't care to realize, and she doesn't have to.

She will, soon enough.

For every day since a week now, Killian found Emma Swann on her balcony, always outside before him. So he thinks this one time, he'll just have to be early – he'll just have to be there before her, and increase the effect of surprise.

Because truly, it is surprise that will bring the look he wants to see on her face. A mix of shame, bewilderment, and deception.

He thinks his victory will only be greater because Emma Swann is a loner. He thinks it is a particular cruelty, to make a fool of someone who has made so many sacrifices to stray from the fools.

Kind of like a bad joke. A very, very bad joke.

So that evening, before six a.m., just as it gets dark in the city of Storybrooke, Killian calls that Red-Hooded girl that he flirted with at the bar. He tells her where to meet him, and she doesn't shy away realizing he asked her to his hotel room.

He grabs at her face and kisses her almost before he says hello, and she's surprised for a second but she doesn't back down on him. And that's lucky, because he feels like he doesn't want a delay in his game – for some reason, it feels like he needs to finish it soon.

Then he hears slight noises coming from the room a wall away, and he grins against Red's lips; Emma's home. And he thinks the first thing she might do when she gets there, is check outside.

The girl who he is currently making out with doesn't feel too hot about going out. The afternoon sun is gone, it's getting cold and the intimate atmosphere of Killian's hotel bedroom is much more adequate, but he insists and tells her there's something he wants her to see.

Curiosity is a mean flaw. What did it do to the cat again?

He opens the window-door of his balcony blindly, while keeping the girl tucked against him. He kisses her with his eyes closed but his ears wide open, and makes sure he's facing Emma's door, because he wants to see her when she arrives.

First though, he hears her. He hears her opening the door to her own balcony, and opens his eyes just to see her step out. He waits a second before he tears his lips away from Red's mouth, and the girl lets out a lustful sigh without turning around to catch the look on Emma's face, but Killian sees it all right.

And it's everything he thought it would be. It's betrayed, deceived and _ashamed_, and for no more than a second, Emma Swann looks like the greatest fool on the globe. She got out there and she hoped to find him here, and he suspects that surprise brought a singular sting that was the essential aim of his game.

But then, as a second goes by and Killian looks at her, as he looks at the supposedly delightful outcome of revenge, he realizes it isn't satisfying at all. He really should have learned that with Belle du Maunier, but it's different with Emma. He shot Belle knowing he was choosing vengeance over justice, but now looking at Emma's face he is incapable of remembering what he's getting revenge for.

Maybe just because the betrayal in her eyes makes it so, in a second, the whole game he invented stops being real, it stops existing, and what becomes real in its place is the moments he spent with a lonely woman, on this balcony. Teasing and flirting and starting to care, giving a start to something that will never be born again, it makes the mere fact that she double-crossed him once start to dim quite fast.

All the reasons why he has done any of this disappear, and all that is left is the look on Emma's face.

It's really perfect.

And then, it hardens and turns to ice, and she swallows and gives him an understanding smile. Yes, she understood all right.

But then the unexpected happens, because as Emma Swann turns away and disappears into her hotel room, after the look in her eyes became cold, he's the one who feels shame.

He has a girl in his arms who is very determined to take off his clothes, while Emma got back with nothing but a sore pinch in her chest, but he's the one who was fooled.

And now, that look of shame and betrayal in Emma's eyes doesn't seem like much compared to what they could have had. It doesn't really feel like vengeance, and as the day ends, he's still the only goddamned fool in this town.

The hurt in Emma's eyes only lasted a second before it turned into a cold, unforgiving sentence. She won't give him a second chance, that is a certainty, no, she won't hear him out now. She's the kind of woman you get to fool once, only once, and he figured he missed his chance because of anger, and revenge – maybe also pride.

Because being ridiculed by a beautiful, fiery woman wasn't an option to Killian Jones, no sir.

And now, by the end of the day, he feels far more shamed than proud.


End file.
